


it's getting cold

by whalerdaud



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalerdaud/pseuds/whalerdaud
Summary: Nearly hidden among the muted crimson cabin doorway lingers Captain Flint, his reckless hands lost somewhere in the pockets of his coat—those hands, held tightly around the hilt of an unforgiving sword, clenched shamelessly along the bloody curve of Singleton’s neck, and now pulling from the night another horror.Or: healmoststeals the page.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	it's getting cold

**Author's Note:**

> just a note: Singleton dies like normal, except John and Max never sneak out to Flint's ship to discover what's on the page. this takes place the day of Singleton's death with John still not knowing exactly what he has, and then he meets Max (and this isn't because i forgot the order of events in the first episode and wrote everything non-chronologically, ok? what's with all these questions? i didn't forget, alright?)
> 
> title from a richard siken poem, beta'd by [dadcorvo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadcorvo) <3

He steals the page. It’s much harder after that.

* 

Nassau awakens at night with all the chaos of a slumbering sailor stirring from a particularly nasty storm—rows of sappy captains whistle lonely tunes into the bottom of their bottles as they stumble from open doorways, cheeks red with regret. Each whispered word that floats through the brothel’s open window, passing through flickering candlelight with burns on the curves of each syllable, teems with a restlessness that feeds the growing ache in John Silver’s head until his eyes close from the weight of it all. 

Max’s fingers thumbing along the ripped edges of his—his stolen _what,_ exactly?—worsen his troubled mind terribly. Her eyes meet his, and the night grows significantly more interesting,

“This is to sell, is it not? But you cannot know who best to sell it to here—I could know that.”

John rolls his shoulders back and leans against the bedpost, looking at Max with an upturned chin. “And what’s that going to cost me?”

“Half,” she says, sureness rounding every accented lilt of the disgraceful word. 

At John’s abrupt laugh, Max raises a brow. “Pleasure should be shared equally. It’s the only way to avoid hurt feelings.”

Worst case scenario, John ends his life as a naive corpse who sinks to the ocean’s deep end. If that were to prove true, then death remains a fair bargain for losing his wits so early in the night. But gold is gold, if that’s what the puzzling page indeed leads to—mountains upon mountains of it, or at least enough to buy a decent dinner.

John gives a careful nod and Max smiles. “Excellent. Now, tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know,” and, before Max’s greatly unamused gaze turns into something much worse, he says, “I know it’s torn from a book that belonged to my old Captain. Some kind of schedule, maybe. But until I can get my hands on the rest—”

“Then how can you be so sure it’s of value?”

John shrugs, then grabs his trousers and boots from the floor and begins the mortifying ordeal of dressing himself. “A guy tried to kill me for it. I figured that was a good indication.”

And so the ravenous room transforms; in the eyes of any curious soul wandering past, the pair of silhouettes in the amber glow of the window reduce themselves to hushed conspirators that weigh the depths of their pockets with possibly non-existent gold. If a great kraken could plot the downfall of a ship, it would first come to Nassau for the pleasure of scheming amongst those tormented souls for which it seeks.

The plan is simple: row to _The Walrus_ with Max, sneak into the Captain’s cabin, and find the book that gives reason to Singleton’s cold murder. 

Seeing as the entire crew sleeps in oblivious heaps at the brothel or half-buried under dirty sand at the beach, the probability of their little night escapade reaching anyone’s ears seems almost slim to none. John climbs on board as Max steers the rowboat out of sight with a promise to leave should anything go wrong. 

Inside the Captain’s cabin, John finds nothing at first.

The solitary desk placed imposingly in the center of the swaying room holds no secrets, nor do the chests sitting heavy yet unfulfilling against the sturdy fireplace, which John happily ignites to warm his salt-soaked clothes. A sudden rush of water thuds against the hull of the ship and splatters dark droplets onto the bay window at the furthest end of the room. John stills, silent as the settling sea, and notices a row of books nestled in front of the window.

He crosses the room in a quiet second, fingers quick to trace the spines of the _Captain’s Logs_ before stiffening on—

 _There,_ he thinks, and then the pages pass by in a flurry, seeping up moonlight until a missing page blinks up at him; he blinks back and greets it with a breathless grin. 

Procuring the accompanying page from his waist pocket, a startling discovery shakes the very floor beneath him.

_L’Urca de Lima. The largest Spanish treasure galleon in the Americas, right within my grasp. It’s impossible. It’s exhilarating. It’s—_

A sound like worn boots across the deck, or perhaps like the slow drag of a cutlass along the wooden grooves of a ship, sneaks underneath the cabin door. Beside John, a feather flutters to the carpet; his heart follows soon after. 

Nearly hidden among the muted crimson cabin doorway lingers Captain Flint, his reckless hands lost somewhere in the pockets of his coat—those hands, held tightly around the hilt of an unforgiving sword, clenched shamelessly along the bloody curve of Singleton’s neck, and now pulling from the night another horror.

Or: he _almost_ steals the page.

“Forgive me,” says John, inching ever so slightly around the desk. “I’m a little drunk, and it looked empty.”

Flint raises the pistol in his hand, holding it like it’s a terrifying extension of himself. “It’s not.”

“Right. Well, I meant your cabin—”

Flint takes an abrupt step forward, intentionally bringing the weapon closer. “Tell me, how does a drunk man make it all the way down the beach and swim all the way to my ship? Am I so incredibly wrong as to assume you came here to find out _what,_ exactly, you’d stolen?”

“Only a little bit drunk.”

“Hm,” he utters, almost humoring John, yet it arrives with a secret hatred propelling it from the tip of his tongue, frightening the very shadows of the cabin. As the barrel of the pistol catches a sliver of moonlight, the shadows of the room seem to bend into themselves and retreat through the floorboards. 

“If you must know, I came to see what kind of alcohol a captain keeps for himself. Surprising, that someone of your reputation requires no drink to chase away all the guilt and pain. I would’ve thought the only savior left for you was lurking at the bottom of a bottle.”

“What you _think_ of what I’ve done doesn’t matter to me,” says Flint. “What you’ve _done_ because of what you think has cost me greatly, and it’ll do the same for you if you’re not careful.”

And _that_ —John laughs and says, so very sure of himself, “Ha! To _me,_ it seems that you’re persuading yourself of that. It’s very strange that you’re being so careful to control your repulsion now when, evidently, it has a mind of its own.”

He’s talking about the early morning on deck, when Singleton died under a cloudless sky and vibrant sun from murder as clear as day to those who knew to look. John knows this, and he knows that Flint knows this too.

Flint’s gaze skips from John’s face to his pistol, then back again as he very pointedly raises a brow. “Is this not clear enough?”

“No. Many friends have delighted in aiming guns at my head, if you’d believe it.”

“Without question. How’s this: I’m sympathetic towards the wind since it has to make time in its day to pass by you, or I fear for the bullets in my gun since they have such a small target to hit.”

The weapon’s still pointed at his head. John scowls. “Duly noted, though unnecessary. I’ll just take my leave—”

Before he can step fully around the desk, the shrill sound of a pistol cocking stills the very air in the room. John pauses, then looks up to meet Flint’s piercing gaze that says, undoubtedly, _try again._

And because his chances of survival end better if the hungry lion goes unpoked, unmocked, untainted; and because Max might’ve abandoned him by now, leaving him to _actually_ swim back to shore; and because the missing page weighs more in his pocket than Nassau does on the Atlantic, John retrieves the _Captain’s Log_ detailing L’Urca de Lima and drops it onto the desk with a heavy _thud._

“Oh, did I not say? I decided to catch up on some reading since there’s such an insulting lack of wine.” And because he never knows when to let violent tides rest, he adds, “You killed an innocent man for a little gold.”

The Spanish treasure galleon is the furthest thing from a little gold, but the effect is intended. Grief, for a short instant, drops its weary head atop Flint’s shoulders, yet it’s lifted in the next second as if called to attention by some stronger force.

What John expects Flint to say is _it wasn’t a particularly troubling decision to make, Singleton needed to die, the fate of the entire crew rested on his dead body, what other choice did I have in a fight to the death?_

What he gets instead is two solemn words, uttered as if the letters themselves were afraid to be heard. “I know,” and then again, even quieter, “I know. Something harbored inside me escaped past my senses.”

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “It didn’t _escape,_ it was let go, released like some wild beast in the jungles of South America. But was it truly a captive in the first place?”

“Singleton isn’t the first person I’ve killed in this pursuit. He’s not even the last person I’ve killed.”

John barely has enough time to furrow his brows and wrack his brain for who the hell else Flint managed to kill in less than a day before the realization stares him down from the barrel of a gun and fires. An unbearable heat hits him first, scraping by his ear like a brush of pure fire before it collides with wood and splinters a beam behind him.

John scrambles for the door; Flint seizes a fistful of his jacket and hauls him backwards until he’s flat on his back on the desk. Unconsciously, his fingers wrap around the spine of the _Captain’s Log_ before freezing as the gun once again meets his wide eyes blown as white as a canvas.

“Killing me wouldn’t do you any good,” he says in a desperate rush of air.

Disbelief rises in Flint’s face. “Don’t you know what happens to thieves?”

“They’re firmly scolded then quickly forgiven of their crimes, left to live out the rest of their lives far away from vengeful captains?”

Flint pauses for a moment before a cruel smile graces his face. “You’re right. I must’ve forgotten, though it’s excusable since I’m a little drunk.”

“My excuse wasn’t _nearly_ that pathetic. You have to sell it with your words and face, but—oh, I’m sorry. You only have two facial expressions. That’s alright, then.”

Before John’s left to bleed to death mere feet from where the mutineer met his fateful end, he says, “Here’s an idea: you let me go, and I’ll help you find the gold. After all, pleasure should be shared equally. It’s the only way to avoid hurt feelings.”

Flint’s finger slides over the trigger. John finishes in a rush, “Ok, I didn’t think so. But you forget—I’m not a thief, I’m _invaluable_.”

In one fluid motion, he slams the _Captain’s Log_ against the pistol, rolls sideways to avoid the haphazard bullet flying through the bay window, and catches himself before he lands straight in the fireplace.

Flint curses somewhere to John’s left, followed by the unmistakable sound of a sword slicing through the air. The blade halts against the rapid pulse of his neck and instills a familiar fear in him.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Flint spits.

Held in peril above the flames dangles the missing page, hardly high enough for the vanishing outline of heat to tickle and melt away any words; a fire almost as bright reflects in Flint’s incredulous gaze.

“No one else has seen this,” John reminds him. “Only me.”

“ _You—_ ”

“Yes, _me._ Now, please remove your blade so that there’s a renewed chance for a different conversation about my future endeavors. If you’d be so kind.”

Creaks and moans rise from the ship as silence sings a lovely tune, causing the slow drift of _The Walrus_ to feel as if it’s ventured thousands of miles rather than having only sat sleepily in the same waters all night. When Flint’s expression doesn’t change save for a deepening frown, the page slips barely a hair’s length from John’s fingers.

Flint swears again and, with all the hesitance of a man surrendering himself to someone else, returns his sword to his side.

“Thank you,” says John, and then he drops the page.

What transpires afterwards ignores any semblance of making sense: John doesn’t die but instead he finds himself away from the fireplace, away from the _Captain’s Log_ and pistol in a heap underneath the shot-through window, and away from Flint’s considerably less-controlled fury.

He’s balanced on the edge of the ship, reaching for a length of rope waving in the night, and it’s getting cold.

“This wind will knock me over before you ever do, don’t you worry,” he laughs, exhilarated.

An unnerving glint in Flint’s gaze shines as a menacing light mirroring that of a lighthouse, one that bores into John’s very bones and illuminates all that he hides. A warning should arise from this beacon, one he should face head-on as to not crash on the shores of his own impulsiveness.

“Wait—” John tries, raising an urgent hand between them. Flint rushes forward and seizes his wrist with one hand as the other—

“ _Wait!_ ” John yelps as the rope’s nearly wrestled from him. Flint’s intentions become clear as his movements grow more calculated, twisting and tearing the lifeline from his fingers before shoving him on deck.

“I assume not many people know of this plan, so there’s a lack of mindpower. The crew’s with you for now, but who’s to say they won’t change their minds in the morning?”

Flint, for a moment, wipes the look that says _I’m going to strangle you_ off his face and instead replaces it with one of _talk, fifteen seconds,_ and talking’s considerably better than fighting for his life.

“If the remnants of Singleton’s loyal crewmates decide to question where your loyalties lie, you need someone who’s close to the crew and who can give them cause to reconsider. _I_ can be that man. I can get inside their heads for you and tell you what, if anything, is going on in them. Gates and you—they don’t trust you completely. You must know this—”

“I know where my crew’s loyalties are, and I certainly don’t need a thief who’s never spent a _single_ day of his miserable life at sea to tell me how to assess _my_ men,” Flint bites out.

 _That’s somewhat fair,_ John thinks. _But where does that leave me?_

Waves lick the sides of the ship as the night grows restless, even under the soothing hum of the moon. Flint’s rigid repulsion towards John should frighten him, yet he knows he’s needed now, whether anyone accepts it or not, and the thought sinks into his bones as an overwhelming mess.

John pulls himself up and reclaims his place atop the ship’s rim. “What you _think_ of what I’ve done doesn’t matter to me, but it’ll matter to you once I bring five million in gold to your men. They’ll like me more than they already loathe you. Believe me, I—”

Flint’s hand moves to his pocket, yet before he can reveal some true terror, Nassau and the treasure galleon demand John’s attention.

“My good captain, may we all find our gold in this life or the next,” he says, then turns, closes his eyes, and breathes in a lungful of air before collapsing into the sea to drown his luck somewhere along its depths.

* 

“And when the Urca’s ours, what’s to stop me from killing you anyway?”

“Well, that’s a few weeks from now, isn’t it? We might be friends by then.”

It’s silent for a second too long. “Just a little bit,” John continues, and Flint leans back in his seat and laughs.

* 

Days, or weeks, or months later, _The Walrus_ comes alive with such fervor that even the monstrous sea quivers beneath its sudden cacophony. Food is shared, stories are told, and dreams drift wistfully by as crewmen detail how they wished to spend their gold when L’Urca de Lima was once theirs for the taking.

It reminds John of a faint vision he had, days or weeks or months ago.

Flint’s door remains shut and silent despite the infectious joy, only the glow of a lone candle bringing light to the sorrow within. 

Someone—Randall, or maybe even Billy—laughs so long and true that the winds shift against the howling ruckus. A strange feeling rises in John; despite the company around him, despite all the men he’s come to know and respect and fight for, something refuses to settle in him, something that’s now fashioned a key to open his mind’s door with.

He stands, suddenly overcome with the desire to do what he should have done months ago when everything was simpler. Now there’s the missing gold, the dead Barlow woman, the _pain_ everywhere—Flint’s sadness hangs in the air like a swinging lantern, barely missing wood where a fire could set ablaze.

John knocks on the cabin door and the laughter outside grows quiet, smothered under everything unsaid between the two of them that now bursts to the surface with glorious harmony.

The door swings open, beckoning sunlight in. It’s a beautiful morning.

**Author's Note:**

> in case you didn't notice, a few lines were lifted directly from the script (or from two drafts of it, whoops). leave kudos/any feedback and thanks for reading!


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